Mischief and Dreams Read online

  Michief and Dreams

  Copyright © 2022 by A.J. Slater

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  First printing edition 2022.

  To all women who supported me through this crazy idea of mine and for all the encouragement along the way- Thank You.

  And to Tom Hiddleston, thank you for your Loki and all the…inspiration.

  Some rules are meant to be broken.

  Life presents us with choices. Those choices determine our path. Within every choice, good or poor, lies a consequence and lesson, if we choose to accept them and learn from them, we move forward in our path. If we do not, we are set back; if we ignore the consequences and lessons long enough, we stray from the path altogether. Rules are designed to help

  us stay on the path.

  But what happens when a rule is wrong?

  Do you chose to break it?

  Do you choose to fight it?

  CHAPTER 1

  Warriors protect and enforce the rules set forth by the Council. I am one of those Warriors. Our world is made of five realms, Ciqisos (Human Realm), Eoraver (God Realm), Isheryon (Angel Realm), Biobronor (Demon Realm), Reogragar (Fae Realm), and the outer realm, which is really a no man’s land of smugglers, spice runners, bounty hunters, ancient monks, and power-hungry politicians. They are the beings of legend with magical powers and infinite lifespans; we call them the Timeless. The Council is an inter-realm committee comprised of representatives from each realm established to ensure safety and balance across the realms, with the goal of preventing one realm from ruling over another.

  My home planet is Earth, part of the Ciqisos realm. As Warriors, we are often seen as outcasts, different. We are human but born with powers like the Timeless; we heal a bit faster with a longer lifespan, though due to the work we do, not many of us can take full advantage of that. When a human baby is born, any powers they may have been dormant. Typically, they do not present before age 4, some as late as puberty. Though there are pockets dotted around the realm where being a Warrior is becoming more accepted, in rare cases even equal, many are still superstitious that having a child with powers will anger the Timeless, who might come to exact revenge. Most of these children are abandoned or even killed.

  Compounds, like the one I live in, take in and even search for these abandoned children, called foundlings, house and feed them, educate them, and train them to use their powers, as well as fight. Once the children are in the custody of the compound, it is binding. If the parents change their minds, they cannot retrieve or even visit their children again. This seems harsh, but it prevents the children from further trauma from being abandoned repeatedly or used as pawns. We are authorized by the Council as the primary defense for any Ciqisos threat and back-up for any other realms in need of assistance. A squadron, the group of a compound’s fully trained soldiers, is comprised of pods. You are assigned to your pod at age 18 based on ability, power tests, IQ tests, and personality tests, including strengths and weaknesses. The idea is that you have a group that you live with, train with, and go into battle with. You know them better than anyone. But more than that, you are a puzzle of carefully fit together pieces, attributes that make you synergistically stronger when combined and continue to make each other better. It’s rare to have a new member added to the pod, but occasionally it does happen, whether a transfer from another compound or, even more rare, a transfer from within the compound. An internal transfer requires reams of paperwork and rigorous psychological testing; for most considering a change, it ends up not being worth the trouble.

  All pods are close, but my pod is tighter than most; Kara, Lurch, Emo, Tale, Chug, Banner, Knuck, and Pax, my best friend, the majority of us grew up in the program together as foundlings. When we were assigned to Pod 3, we had the 4 of the top individual fighters in the compound, and we were the highest-ranking pod overall. There was a lot of criticism for the decision to put so much of the leader board in one group instead of ‘sharing the wealth’ as it were, but the results of the other tests were irrefutable. Our other skillsets enhance our teamwork and fighting that we remain undefeated, even now, after a decade. Our Warrior origins, however, are less glamorous.

  Pax and I arrived at the compound on the same afternoon. He is descended from the indigenous people of this land, an ancient, beautiful culture steeped in history, wisdom, and respect for nature. His mother was a learned, wise woman of their tribe, a healer, and his father, though also indigenous, wanted to blend in and embrace the modern, colonized way of life. He coveted the shiny things and status that money and power could give him. He urged his wife to leave the old ways behind, but it wasn’t until he found her teaching them to Pax that he forbade her from ever mentioning them again. When Pax began to show signs of power over natural elements, she trained him in secret until his father came home early one day. Pax was six. His father watched through the gate as he sat in the backyard, conjuring mini-weather patterns, tiny storms, earthquakes, and tornadoes. His mother walked into the kitchen to find his father on the phone reporting his son; she pleaded and begged, screaming until her throat was raw, her voice hoarse. Pax began to panic as men drove up and collected him from the backyard, loading him into the car. As they pulled away, he rolled the window down, screaming for his mother, “Okas!!!”. A gunshot rang out, and he heard his mother scream, “Kuwumáras! (I love you!)”, followed by another gunshot. It’s a truly haunting story, one he doesn’t tell often or sober.

  For the others, it’s a mixed bag. Knuck is the youngest of the group, an early bloomer; his powers are laser vision. He was found wandering the streets of a small town a couple hundred miles from here. The story goes that he lasered through the roof of a grocery store while he was with his mother doing the grocery shopping. Despite being dirty and hungry when the suits responded to the report of a toddler abandoned outside the damaged grocery store and picked him up, the nearly four-year-old kept these grown men in stitches with his antics the whole way back to the compound; not a thing has changed.

  Chug and Banner, twins, showed up together at about age five, two years after Pax and I. If there was a prank pulled, chances were (and still are) it was one of the two or both, Chug with super speed and Banner with super strength. They have had an understated confidence about them even as young children, but without the over-inflated ego that often comes along with our environment of superpowers and constant competition. They say they ran away, but Pax and I suspect they were kicked out given the number of nights we comforted them after waking up in the night screaming, “Mom! No, please, don’t make us go! Dad!”. Chug’s defense mechanism is humor, but Banner never quite mastered coping skills. He is quick-tempered; coupled with his super strength, he can wreak havoc on anything within grabbing distance. We all have our tricks of dealing with him, but Kara is the only one able to quell him once he’s gone “green”, as we call it.

  Lurch is a quiet and steadfast friend and a ferocious defender. Though it’s a monumental feat to push him to anger’s edge, unlike Banner, but once there, it is the stuff of nightmares to witness his wrath. He was twelve and already 5’ 10” when his best friend told him during lunch that she had been assaulted by a group of boys while walking home the previous
day. His rage triggered his powers, and he froze the entire cafeteria of kids, including his friend. He was brought to us the following day.

  Emo was found in the wreckage of a car accident that killed the rest of his family. Nearly five years old and comatose, he lay for weeks in the hospital. When he awoke, he had only vague memories of who he was. As weeks went on, he began to gain strength, and the nurses noticed that they all left their shift happier. It wasn’t until he began to talk to them that they realized he was reading and manipulating their emotions. A kind child, Emo would replace anger with calm, sadness with happiness, worry with peace, but they knew he needed a safe place to grow. They contacted the compound; the suits came out and assessed him and continued to monitor him, hesitant to disrupt the medical progress he was making. Soon enough, he was discharged and moved to the compound.

  Tale is the oldest of us. He was nearly 10 when Pax and I came to the compound. He was (and is) drop-dead handsome with long, luscious blonde hair, blue eyes, and oozing with southern charm. I was instantly smitten, and watching him blow stuff up with his kinetic energy power wasn’t the deterrent it should have been, either. I followed him around like a puppy everywhere he went. My feelings went unrequited, but he became the big brother I never had, teaching me to stand up for myself, how to cuss, and gave me my first beer. As we got older, he helped me hone my espionage skills, learning from his uncanny ability to convince anyone of anything.

  I’m almost convinced that Kara is from the Isheryon Realm or at least part Angel. She is the kindest, most loving, and fiercely loyal person I’ve ever met. I was eight when she arrived. No one knows her backstory. She’s never discussed it. If the compound suits know, it’s at a clearance level higher than mine, which is saying something. This realm would be nearly perfect if we all strive to be even a little more like her.

  We have a few close friends from other pods, Odds, Locks, and Wings. Odds is an old soul and most certainly an Amazon Warrior in her previous life. With her super agility and ability to climb walls, this woman is a fantastic fighter and stunningly beautiful to boot. Locks has healing abilities. She has survived horrific injuries without a mark to show for it. Her power allows her unending bravery in defense of her pod mates and others she may go into battle with, but it also makes her reckless and complacent about her own mortality.

  Locks and Odds were found about a year after I came to the compound, huddled under an overpass of an abandoned interstate, ages six and seven respectively, and still inseparable. I, personally, believe Wings may be part Fae, given the wings. As if her wings weren’t enough, she also has an ancient wisdom about her, and I’ve caught her on more than one occasion speaking to the trees in the forest behind the compound, though she played it off like she was talking to herself. Test results have been inconclusive, and we’ve all heard that unions between humans and those from the other realms do not result in offspring. I’m not convinced and wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had latent magic just waiting to emerge. She was eight when her wings appeared one morning. She simply flew herself to the compound after leaving a note for her parents, sleep still crusting her eyes.

  Given everything involved in being a Warrior, it’s hard to have a normal relationship. Usually, we end up dating one of our own; it has its benefits and challenges. Sometimes, relationships with powerless humans, whom we call the PLs, can work out, but often it puts them in more danger. What is strictly prohibited is relationships with those from other realms. It’s rare, anyway. As humans, both PLs and Warriors are usually seen as lesser than by all the other realms. But once in a while, love or lust pushes the boundaries. In all cases, though, those involved are executed. As for me, personally, I have been in an on-again-off-again relationship with Zane in my squadron; his power is controlling air. It sounds bland, I realize, and while not very flashy, it is very effective. While he can’t control the weather, he can create wind, even tornadoes. He can compress air and send it like bullets or a cannon or simply steal it from your lungs. He is amazing to watch in battle. All in all, he is a good guy, or he could be if he made any effort. He can be hot-headed, heavy-handed, and smart-mouthed, not that I can’t.

  Being a Warrior is rewarding but grueling. We train every day, always some combination of strength training, sparring, agility, and powers. My powers of telekinesis and telepathy are rare; the Council has not been able to staff all the compounds with tele mentors. I’ve been studying on my own with limited success. I only use them if there are no other options and lives are at stake; I can’t risk injuries or death to others due to my lack of skill.

  At night, the dreams come. I’m not sure if it’s my overactive imagination or an artifact of my powers. Sometimes I will relive moments of my childhood, the first time my powers surged, the excitement I felt as it coursed through my five-year-old body, the fear and dread in my mother’s eyes and my smile faded, the desperation in her voice when she tried in vain to convince my dad it was nothing, her eyes raw from the rivers of tears she shed as they abandoned me in front of a store in town near the compound. Other times, I dream of a man, but I never can quite see his face in full. Sometimes he’s the hero, sometimes the villain, but I am drawn to him every time. I have convinced myself this is Zane, but deep down, I have my doubts. And then there is the woman. She always seems to be leading me somewhere, to something, or someone; I never quite find what or who it is before I wake. When I was younger, I used to sketch the people and places from my dreams—preserving them in hopes that something good would come of it. After so many years and now as an adult, I see them for what they are, my mind making sense of this crazy world we live in and this crazy life I lead, but it is not without sadness that I let go of the hope of dreams that come true. But such is adulthood, I guess. The shine of hope and promise are scraped away from reality bit by bit, year by year until you are left with the mediocre banality that had always lay ahead of you, and the remnants of your beautiful dreams stashed in a dusty box in your closet.

  After a long week of training, strategy meetings, and missions or pouring over ancient texts to prevent the next armageddon, loud music and alcohol are often the balm of choice. We usually go to bars that are owned by Warriors or former Warriors. It causes fewer questions, less conflict with humans, and ultimately less property damage. Socially speaking, it’s best that we all don’t mingle. It just stirs up trouble, but sometimes that’s the point.

  O’Connell’s is our Friday night standard spot. Rick, the owner, was a Warrior for 120 years. Now in his retirement, he helps us blow off steam without blowing up stuff, or at least he tries. The bar was crowded tonight, regulars and visitors alike. I was going light on the booze since Zane had endured a “rough week” (his definition varies from mine) and had the potential to start shit with someone, anyone really, and I needed to be on point for intervention detail. One of these days, I would get tired enough of his juvenile bullshit. But the work we do is hard, and it’s even harder to crawl into an empty bed every night afterward. So, I’ll say it, Zane is a convenience, a steady, albeit mediocre, fuck. But it’s better than alone-no, better than lonely.

  There are several new faces in the crowd tonight. Sometimes, we get waves of warriors from other parts of the country or realm, so it isn’t unheard of, but it doesn’t happen every day, either. Usually, they hang out with their pod mates, but one new face is here alone. That means one thing-assassin. He looked normal enough, tall, dark hair cut short in the back but left long on top, and it hangs over his eyes, so he can look all broody and mysterious, not ugly either. New eye candy was a nice change for these parts. Still, something was off about him. Rick seems to know him, so I brushed it off. I’m likely just projecting my anxiety about whatever the hell it is Zane will come up with in the next few hours to get pissed about.

  We all sit at a table near the front, well into our cups, and absorbed in the comfortable conversations of long-time friends, convincing ourselves that alcohol will actually dissolve th
e fatigue and stress of the week. Zane keeps glowering toward the bar. There’s no telling what he’s convinced himself that he’s being persecuted for this time, ever the victim. I could feel his anger seething just below the surface. I’m sure he looked completely fine to those who didn’t know him well, but we all knew the monster was just biding his time, lurking.

  Every now and again, I got this feeling, like chills but on the inside. I hoped I wasn’t getting sick. I looked around the bar to see if anyone else was experiencing anything similar but came up empty. I find myself glancing at the stranger. What was it about him?

  “Is anyone else feeling weird?” I ask, my hand on the back of my neck as I bend my head side to side. Heads shake all around the table.

  “You all right, Thera?” Chug asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I just pinched a nerve or something making that last sparring move.”

  “Gods, probably, but dammit, it was amazing! The way you all, whoosh and whaaaat….” Pax reenacting and highly dramatizing my evasive maneuver against him in the training room.

  “Ha! Not so amazing if I can’t walk tomorrow.” I expected a smart comment from someone, but everyone had registered Zane’s mood and stayed quiet.

  “I’d say as long as you can walk by the end of the week, it will be worth it. I’m pulling that footage for the official archive. That was some crazy shit.” Pax was the unofficial historian of the compound.

  We agreed it was time to hit the dance floor, but Zane stayed seated. He glared at me.

  “Sit down.” He spat between clenched teeth.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sit down. I don’t feel like dancing.”

  “Um, ok, fine. So don’t. I do, so I’m headed up there.”

  “If I don’t go, you don’t go. I’m not going to sit here and watch as every guy in here rubs their dick against you. Gods, this guy can’t seem to keep his fucking eyes to himself, keeps looking over here at you.” He nodded over to the bar where the loner was sitting, his voice rising. He stood up so quickly that the chair barked as it shot backward across the floor. He hurled his glass to the floor, shattering it into a million sparkling pieces.